Spenard Easter

Following my misadventures in Mountain View, I gleefully returned to my regular habitat in the Spenard store, which is literally on the wrong side of the railroad tracks, tracks visible from the massive front windows overlooking the busy thoroughfare. An endless array of people from all walks of life patronize the Spenard store, which makes for an interesting night on most nights. However, Easter Sunday is the day that even the most hardened alcoholic takes a step back and remembers that there are finer things to appreciate in life than booze, perhaps even the company of friends over a meal or some sort of spiritual enlightenment in a house of worship. Whatever the reason, the closing shift was painfully slow and not only did my coworker and I manage to keep the place stocked without hurrying the entire night, I spent some quality time dusting the shelves and washing the glass of the coolers. As I busied myself, worrying about what sort of blog could possibly come from an easy night like this, I realized a profile of my liquor store home turf was in order.

From the Mountain View regular who woke up somehow on the wrong side of town and shuffles to the front counter wordlessly to buy a half pint of R&R to hold him over until he can get enough quarters in his grubby fists to purchase that coveted plastic fifth of Monarch Vodka to the world-weary traveler passing through on her way home from the airport, my clientele is never boring. The best is the glamorous prostitute, who comes in every night with a different man on her arm, no purse, producing her identification from regions best left unspoken, and smiling with all the charm that a meth-using whore possesses. Together, they wander the aisles, and she points - "I want that. One of those. I want one of those. And some candy." Seriously, dude. You've already paid for her. Getting her liquored up is not strictly necessary at this point. You're going to want that candy, though, so that later you can get the taste of shame out of your mouth as you stagger back home to whatever life you lead, and hopefully it doesn't involve a wife or girlfriend waiting patiently for you to "get out of the office," you treacherous bastard.

For every 4 customers in the Mountain View store, I was able to sell alcohol to perhaps 1 or 2 of them. In Spenard, the refusals to sell are fewer and farther between. However, the refusals to dole out my phone number are terribly regular. I've also noticed that the bravado and persistance of the man asking for that date or my digits is inversely proportionate to how much they are spending once they reach my counter and are dazzled by my sparkling personality and apparently classic good looks. Wow, two 40s of Steel Reserve and "a pack of your cheapest menthol cigarettes"? Why don't I just get naked now and save you the hassle of impressing me and passing my field STI test? Oh, you're paying for your goods with wrinkled cash from the bottom of your pants pocket that looks like it's been recently plastered against a sweaty stripper's body, and now I'll have to use hand sanitizer on every part of my body that's been exposed to your cheap cologne, but sure. Let's go out. Let me guess? You want to split the bills evenly because you "don't believe in chauvanism and women are equals" in your eyes? Please. Buy a bottle of Patron Silver or Laphroiag 10 year old scotch and we'll talk.

Just for the record, it's terribly inappropriate to tell me if I wore a shirt that showed "just a little more cleavage" and "did some jumping jacks" I'd "go wherever I wanted in life." Evidently a woman's brain is securely lodged in her mammary glands, and the brain is only stimulated by up and down movements. I'd give myself a friggin black eye if that were true.

Fuck you. I'm smart. And no, you can't have my phone number.